


We'll Always Have Paris

by Tony



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M, Origin Story, Original Character(s), Pre-Slash, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-18
Updated: 2013-10-24
Packaged: 2017-12-29 19:22:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1009113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tony/pseuds/Tony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur and Eames have a history- a long one full of tragedy and tinged with blood.</p><p>This is the story of how they met, how they lived, and how they loved.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [redluna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/redluna/gifts).



> Just in time for Halloween, this is actually an Inceptiversary fill for the lovely [Luna](http://redxluna.tumblr.com/), who wanted vampires. I got a little carried away and something that wasn't supposed to be over 5,000 words went up and over 20,000. 
> 
> This work is heavily inspired by Anne Rice's Vampire Chronicles, but hopefully isn't too cut-and-paste.
> 
> A big thank you to two ladies, [Quinn](http://spookstergasm.tumblr.com/) and [Indi](http://spookindisguise.tumblr.com/), without which this fic would not have been completed. Quinn's constant insistence that the fic ISN'T complete crap was invaluable to me, and Indi's keen eye ensured that the entire epilogue wasn't an embarrassment. Both of these girls made this fic what it is, and I love them to death for it.

Vivienne Parnell hailed from London, eldest daughter in a powerful family with old money. She was married off to a man named Jonathan and shipped to the Americas to be his trophy wife, along with a handsome dowry. Jonathan Darling had a mind for business, and had picked Vivienne for her beauty as well as her money, genuinely interested in making a family and building a business with her at his side. With her arrival in New York, Jonathan was soon the owner of a shipping company off the coast of Long Island. They lived comfortably, and loved passionately, yet it seemed their efforts to make a child were in vain after years of no success.

Five years after Jonathan and Vivienne settled into their married life, it seemed God finally took pity on them and bestowed the gift of pregnancy upon Vivienne, who’d prayed and prayed for a child to love and care for. Jonathan was ecstatic. Nine months of hellish sickness and discomfort had Vivienne giving birth to a son: Arthur Darling. 

It was 1742, and Jonathan’s business had just begun to really take off. Jonathan saw the birth of his son as an excuse to work harder, provide for his family, and keep them living comfortable and healthy lives. This meant being away almost all day every day, and Vivienne was left to care for Arthur with only the help and advice of a few other housewives she’d come to be acquaintances with. 

Vivienne loved Arthur, but it was hard on her, physically and emotionally, to be without her husband for such long periods of time. Her love for Jonathan was redirected instead to Arthur, who she spoiled rotten over the years. He’d cleave to her side and whine, and he’d get everything he wanted, right when he wanted it. Jonathan seemed satisfied in his fatherly duties just knowing that Arthur was receiving the best schooling their money could afford, as well as the best clothing, food, and entertainment. The Darlings wanted for nothing.

The young man Arthur was growing into was devastatingly handsome, smarter than both of his parents, and clever as a fox. He’d grown accustomed to being spoiled, getting what he wanted, but he wasn’t rude, or mean-- Vivienne had made sure he learned some manners. It hadn’t diminished his need to rebel when he grew of age. He’d taken to going out at night, long past his curfew, and drinking, gambling, stealing kisses from prostitutes who cooed and caressed, catered to his ego and his deeply-lined pockets. 

In 1760, Arthur noticed his mother’s health declining rapidly. The coughing fits she had experienced every year in the Spring were coming more frequently, and had been doing so for the past couple of years. Thick mucus would erupt from her lungs, and a wheeze would accompany her breathing for a couple days, but then it would pass. Usually. This year, the attacks were hitting her harder, and the wheezing was becoming almost constant.

Arthur was 18, a man now, dressed smartly and kneeling beside his mother’s bed, kissing her gaunt cheek when he walked in.

“Excuse me sir! What the hell do you think you’re doing barging in here?” Arthur demanded of the man, regretful that he didn’t have his knife on him. Were they being robbed? The intruder was dressed too well to be a thief, Arthur noticed. “My mother is very sick. We weren’t expecting any callers.”

The man removed his hat and simply smiled, walking around the canopied bed to the opposite side of where Arthur stood. The sheer white drapes veiled his visage, but Arthur could see a big pink mouth, combed blond hair, and wide-set shoulders. He wore a black longcoat, something not even in style in this area. Was he foreign?

“Darling,” came the man’s voice as he bent to one knee and took one of Vivienne’s hands in his own, kissing her cracked knuckles. He was British. That would explain the exotic look and the strange coat.

When the man came into Arthur’s view, he was stunned momentarily. This intruder, whoever he was, was handsome, more handsome than any man Arthur had ever seen. He swallowed thickly and watched as the stranger smiled down at his mother affectionately. She was smiling back, albeit weakly, and it was obvious they knew each other. 

“Don’t call me that, Eames,” Vivienne’s weathered voice scolded, and he grinned wolfishly down at her. “My God, you haven’t aged a day. You’re a devil, I knew it. Always knew it.” And then she turned to Arthur, her cheeks flushed and hair damp from sweat. Her voice was ragged, interrupted with occasional coughing. “Arthur, sweetheart. This is Eames. This man could have been your father.”

“Excuse me?” Arthur sputtered, eyes narrowed in suspicion between the two of them. 

Vivienne chuckled and turned back to the man- to Eames, who hadn’t even bothered to spare Arthur a look. She sighed wistfully, and the wheeze from her chest was painfully audible. “He was never for me, though. I wasn’t that unlucky.”

Eames winced. “Still angry at me? I’m not surprised. Women are terribly fond of holding grudges.”

Arthur had heard enough. “Alright sir, my mother is quite sick. I’m going to have to ask you to-”

“Arthur, please. Don’t be rude to our guest!” Vivienne chided, and Eames finally looked up at Arthur, a wry smile on his lips. His eyes were grey-green, a color Arthur had never seen before. That gaze seemed to penetrate him deeper than humanly possible, and suddenly his mouth was dry, tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.

Clamping his jaw as well as his fists, Arthur looked between the both of them and turned his nose up. “I’ll just.. Leave the two of you alone then. Mother, if you need me, just- just call for me.”

He left the room in a huff and went to the kitchen to get himself a drink. He was sweating, annoyed, confused, and suddenly wished his father was there for support (he could dream, couldn’t he?). Downing a glass of water, Arthur licked his lips and closed his eyes, allowing the frustration of the past week seep out of his shoulders. He’d been at his mother’s side for days on end, changing her sheets and trying to get her to eat. Her persistent cough haunted his waking hours as well as the half-consciousness of the scant hours of sleep he managed to steal.

It had exhausted him beyond belief. He went up the stairs to his room, and stepped out onto the balcony for some fresh air. The sickness had stifled his senses and made the air in the house feel sticky, humid, tainted. Maybe tonight he’d get a nurse to sit with his mother so he could go out for awhile. It wasn’t likely, but the thought made him smile anyway. The cough his mother had been suffering from hadn’t caught on to him yet, luckily, but surely any day he’d be sick with the fever and shakes as well. That’s how the seasonal illnesses worked, usually- one family member caught the bug, and then the rest?

Arthur was unsure as to how much time had passed. Bent at the waist and leaning on his elbows, he’d been gazing out at the evening sky over the balcony when he was suddenly aware of a presence behind him. He turned and jumped, finding the stranger looming ominously behind him.

“The hell!?” Arthur spat, running a shaky hand through his slicked-back hair. His moment of peace was long gone and he was back to being angry and confused. “Get out of my house. You don’t belong here.”

“She’s dying.”

Arthur paled, and sagged against the balcony behind him. “No she isn’t. What sort of consequence is it to you anyway?”

“I’ve known your mother for longer than you’ve been alive. I’ve known her for longer than you can imagine. I loved her, more than you or your father ever will, and I came to see her in her last days. She wants me here Arthur, and you cannot change that,” came the simple reply, as if it were obvious to everyone but Arthur. Vivienne’s British accent had waned over the years, but this man’s was full and thick, intoxicating like a fine wine. Arthur hated him.

“And what does all this mean then? You’re here to be her nursemaid? Because I’m not doing a good enough job of it?” Arthur asked, voice wrought with more exhaustion than malice.

The stranger sighed and leaned against the balcony himself, looking out amongst the rooftops and to the coastline. The sound of gulls was audible even from this distance. “I’m here for you, Arthur.”

Arthur looked at the man, his profile beautiful in the failing light of the evening. Men had never been in Arthur’s interest, but the attraction he had to this stranger was undeniable. “I beg your pardon?”

Lacing his fingers together and smiling secretly, the man gave Arthur a sidelong look. “Your mother isn’t going to make it another week. She’s been sick for quite a long time, and it’s gotten worse hasn’t it? She’s been this way for almost a month, has she not? I’m here to ensure that her hard work doesn’t go to waste. We wouldn’t want the Darling line to die off now, would we?”

“I’m not sure I understand,” Arthur said quietly, not liking how easily this man was speaking of his mother’s impending death-- as if it were already set in stone. There was a tone of mocking there too, that annoyed Arthur to no end. “Are you.. some sort of doctor?”

Eames snorted and turned, leaning on one elbow. “Something like that. My name is Eames, and I’m here to take you with me. At your mother’s request.”

Arthur narrowed his eyes. “She hasn’t spoken to me about this.”

“Well had you not left the room in a fit of petulance, you might have been there for the conversation.”

Flushing hotly, Arthur pushed away from the balcony and headed back into his room. “You forget your manners, sir. This is my home and I urge you to remember your place as an intruder. I’ll ask her myself about this business-- there’s no way she’d send me off with some stranger who I’ve never heard mention of before today.”

Quick as lightning, there was a hand on his elbow, holding Arthur in place. He turned to see Eames, right at his back, glowering down at him. “She’s sleeping. You will let her rest.”

Arthur felt sick to his stomach suddenly. Had he made a mistake? Had he left his mother alone with a murderer? He felt a lump lodge itself in his throat and he pushed away from Eames, dashing out of the room and down the stairs. “MOTHER!?” he called, running to the den where Vivienne had been moved, dashing to the side of her canopy bed. “Mother, are you...” Arthur trailed off, his hand on his mother’s cheek, eyes on the obvious rise and fall of her bosom. Her skin seemed to have more color to it then when he’d left earlier, and she was still very clearly alive- only resting. The terrible wheeze was no longer there, her breathing seemed to have become easier in the short time Arthur was away. 

He choked back a sob and collapsed at the side of her bed, his mouth pressed in a kiss to her hand.

“I told you she was resting. Bloody hell you’re a saucy tart, aren’t you?”

Snapping his head up, Arthur wiped away the tears that had begun to well up and got to his feet. At 18, he wasn’t quite as tall as Eames, but he refused to be intimidated as he looked up into the stranger’s face. “I don’t know what you did, but your favor is done. Get out of my Goddamned house. We were fine before, and we will continue to be so once you’re gone!” he hissed angrily, embarrassed and frustrated, and exhausted to the bone.

Instead of a smart retort, Eames only smiled sadly and put a hand on Arthur’s shoulder. When he spoke, it was soft and affectionate, sympathetic instead of cold and condescending. “Arthur. I’m only here to help. I told you- I’ve loved your mother dearly for longer than you’ve been alive, and I only want her last days to be in peace. Can’t you understand that? Here. Let me show you something.”

Arthur looked wary, not sure if he liked or disliked the big, chilly hand on his shoulder. The touch was fond, fatherly. Something he’d received from his own father almost every year on his birthday. And then all of a sudden, Arthur’s chest grew warm. His eyebrows arched in question as a cough rose to his throat, and the warmth in his chest became almost... itchy. It tingled and he raised a hand to his mouth, stifling a cough with his fist. He felt hot, his head fuzzy, the weight of the hand on his shoulder almost too much to bear as he began to hack in earnest. His throat burned and his lungs felt full of cotton, mouth tasting like the phlegm he coughed up when he had a cold. 

And just as it began to overwhelm him, just as he was leaning into Eames and clutching onto the man’s coat, just as a wave of nausea began to overtake him, Eames’ hand was gone and so was the strange, fuzzy warmth. 

“What the hell was that?” Arthur asked, blinking the haze from his eyes and rubbing his chest, his body trembling with a hollow ache. He felt uncomfortable and strangely scared. Like someone had just walked over his grave.

Eames looked away, to Vivienne, and back to Arthur. “You have what she has. And you’re going to die, just like she’s dying.”

Arthur barked a laugh. “You are absolutely mad.”

Sighing, Eames took the top hat he’d been holding and placed it back onto his head. “I’ll be back. Try not to do anything stupid in the meantime. Get some rest.”

Arthur’s ears burned. He turned and called out, hand reaching to grab a fistful of Eames’ coat when the man turned suddenly and grabbed his wrist. Arthur startled. 

“Arthur,” Eames purred in half-warning, lips curling into a strangely affectionate smile. Eames’ hand was tightening on Arthur’s wrist, a warmth flooding his body like sinking into a hot bath. “I told you to get some rest. I’ll be back for you.”

Later, Arthur would be unable to recall the next few minutes. He would only remember Eames’ piercing eyes, the flirtatious twist of his plush pink lips, and then he’d be waking up in his bed in a nightshirt, feeling flushed and confused (and wonderfully, beautifully well-rested) as he looked out his window to see the sun rising on the horizon.

But wasn’t it just 6 o’clock?

  


[ _Shipping on a Calm Sea_ by Thomas J. Buttersworth]


	2. Chapter 2

Arthur still felt confused, aggravated. He’d gotten up quickly, a new energy in his body that hadn’t been there in days, and rushed to his mother’s bedside. She was still sleeping, that little bit of color from the previous evening still there in her cheeks. There wasn’t a mess on the bed and the dark circles under her eyes were gone. If Arthur didn’t know any better, he’d think she was recovering.

He sat on the bed carefully, and leaned in to kiss her forehead. As he was pulling away, his eyes caught the sight of red marks on his mother’s neck- two small sores that would look like a spider bite if not for how far apart they were. Arthur narrowed his eyes and looked at the other side of her neck only to find nothing. Nothing on her collar, her jaw, her chest. Just the two spots on her neck that certainly weren’t there yesterday. 

Worrying further wouldn’t do him any good, and Vivienne was looking worlds better, so Arthur stood and went to make himself some breakfast. It was a nice change not to be so worried over his mother’s health that he could take a moment and worry about his own.

In the middle of a plate of eggs and biscuits, Arthur heard the front door open and close.

“Arthur? You here?”

Arthur smiled and pushed away from the table, quickly wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his nightshirt and going to the foyer. “Father! I wasn’t expecting you back so soon. How was the weather on your return trip?”

Jonathan tugged the scarf from his neck and shrugged. “Beautiful. Smooth sailing the entire way. How is your mother? Any better?”

“Actually, yes. She was still feeling unwell last night but today she seems better. She’s resting right now, or at least she was an hour ago.”

“Mm. I’m thirsty from my trip. Fetch me a drink, Arthur?” Jonathan asked, hanging his coat on the rack and heading down the hall towards the den where Vivienne lay. 

“I... yes. Alright,” Arthur said, and headed back to the kitchen. His father had been gone a week and a half, and Arthur had hoped maybe he’d show a little affection for his son, but no such luck. Not like he wasn’t used to it. Jonathan liked to keep his family at arm’s length when he was at home. The shipping company had become his family, or so Arthur seemed to think.

Arthur carried a tray with hot tea into the den, only to find his father not there. His mother was still resting on her side, oblivious to the waking world. He took the tray back out into the foyer, up the stairs, and peaked into his parents’ room to see his father at his desk dipping a quill into a pot of ink delicately. 

“Did you see mother?” asked Arthur, setting the tray down on a nearby table.

Jonathan looked over his shoulder with half a smile. “Oh yes, she looks the same as when I left. No sugar please, Arthur. Thank you.”

Pursing his lips, Arthur poured his father some tea and promptly carried it over to him. “You look so busy. You just got in-- have you no time to relax?”

Waving his hand in vague dismissal, Jonathan took his tea. “That’s what being a man is, Arthur. Work. It never really ends.”

There were a few things Arthur wanted to say to that, but they would all have gotten him slapped in the face for insolence. “I’ll be downstairs if you have need of me,” Arthur stated, leaning down to kiss his father on the top of his head. He smelled salty and musky, in need of a wash. “I’m glad to have you back.”

Jonathan hummed in acknowledgement and Arthur left the room. Maybe if his father got a free moment later, he could bring up the strange events of the previous evening, and the man who called himself Eames.

...

Vivienne had felt so much better that afternoon that she was sitting up in bed, requesting a bath and something to fill her empty, cramping stomach. Arthur had smiled, fetched her exactly what she wanted, and helped her into a warmth bath.

“It feels nice to get this sweat off my skin. Thank you, Arthur,” she’d sighed, leaning heavily against the side of the tube. 

Arthur took a sponge to her arms, her back, glad to have his mother back in moderate health and glad to be of service. “I thought I’d lost you there,” he said quietly. “I’m happy that you’re feeling better.”

She hadn’t said anything for a long moment, her knees pressed to her chest and her cheeks still splotchy red. “I don’t want to leave you, Arthur. But I’m getting old and I’m not strong enough to stay around much longer.”

“Old?” he parroted, incredulous. Her skin was still smooth, the lines on her face barely visible. But the sickness had added a decade to her, had taken weight from her bones and color from her skin, her lips, her hair. “You don’t look so old to me. Stop saying such things, you’re getting better now. Look at you, I suspect you’ll be up and around for dinner tonight with how well you look.”

Vivienne raised a hand to her should, where Arthur’s hand was. She covered his fingers with her own and looked up at him with a sad smile. Her lashes were still long and dark, her eyes golden brown. There was still youth in the curve of her mouth. “Eames was here last night. He told you I was dying.”

Arthur frowned. So it hadn’t been a dream brought on by fatigue... “What does he have to do with anything? He told me he is not a doctor-- what would he know of your condition?”

“He knows more than any doctor. He did for me what no doctor can. I’m not in pain right now, but I can still feel it. The sickness. I don’t want to leave you Arthur, but it’s going to happen. Eames can’t save me, not with all his devilish tricks, but he- he can save you. I asked him to do it. I asked him to make sure you live. You’re young and beautiful and you deserve the life I couldn’t have.”

It was all sounding very ominous and confusing, and Arthur thought maybe his mother had fallen into delusion. “You do not know what you say,” he whispered, leaning forward and hugging his mother to his chest, not caring about the soap and water dampening his clothing. “Stop saying things like that, mother. You are not going anywhere and neither am I.”

When Arthur pulled away, his mother didn’t look at him. Her long golden hair fell in curtains around her heart-shaped face, and one of her hands went to her neck, covering the red sores as if she were self-conscious about them. “Leave me, Arthur. I can bathe myself. I’ll call for you when I’m ready. And please, would you open the window? I need some fresh air.”

Arthur frowned but didn’t fight. He did as his mother asked and dried his hands on a towel, leaving the room as requested. He loved his mother more than anything, and it pierced him to the core to see her mind diminishing like this. Maybe the fresh air from the window would clear her senses.

...

Dinner wasn’t terrible. The Darlings ate in the den, almost like a normal family. Vivienne still couldn’t eat more than a little at a time, but she was feeling well enough to converse, and afterwards she even requested her knitting needles, refusing to rest because she wasn’t tired. Arthur wasn’t entirely sure, but the spots on his mother’s neck seemed agitated, red, almost freshly made. But the color in her cheeks was no longer splotchy, instead rosy like a young woman’s. Her hair seemed brighter as well. Arthur took it as a sign of further recovering health, and didn’t mention the bite-like marks.

Jonathan kept by her side that night, and Arthur was able to leave the house, go out to the gambling houses and have a drink to relax. He’d lost quite a bit of money, most of it in ale, but he was feeling flushed and happy, at ease in a way he hadn’t been in weeks. 

He bought a prostitute that evening, a beautiful blonde woman with voluptuous breasts and a ruby-red mouth. They fucked on an unclean bed in a hotel, and afterwards, Arthur laid his head on her bosom and listened to her heartbeat. Drunk as he was, it was a lullaby to him. He drifted off to sleep, naked in the damp sheets, and again woke the next day in his own room, in his night clothes, the door to the balcony open just a few inches and letting in a sweet morning breeze. 

Another morning waking up well-rested had Arthur assuming he’d drunkenly stumbled home last night on his own. What else could be the case?

...

Two days later and Jonathan was back to constant work again, spending his days at the harbor taking inventory, overseeing deals, making decisions on trades and repair, everything a working father and husband should be doing. He’d leave at sunrise and come back in the late evening, tired and unsociable.

Arthur was used to it. He was fine with taking care of his mother, who seemed to still be sick but not getting better nor worse. She’d have coughing fits every few hours, barely hold down any food, and wasn’t seeming to get much of her energy back. It was better than nothing, and so Arthur really couldn’t complain. Vivienne didn’t mention Eames again either, which put Arthur’s mind at ease.

...

It was a beautiful, cool September evening the day that Vivienne refused to wake up.

Arthur had been out for an hour, as per his mother’s request to purchase some fresh fruit. She’d wanted some purple plums, and Arthur had been more than happy to take a trip down to the market. He’d come back, sack of plums and cherries and peaches in hand. Taking off his coat and hanging it up, Arthur called through the house, “Mother, I’m back! The markets were almost closed, I was lucky to get what I did.”

He hummed as he padded through the foyer and into the den, smiling at his mother’s form through the sheer curtains of her canopy bed. He popped a cherry into his mouth. “Oh, these are juicy. I know you just wanted plums but I... Mother?”

Setting down the sack of fruits, Arthur leaned in and gently shook his mother’s shoulder. She’d been doing so good these past few days, staying awake and alert. “Mother? Mother, I got your plums.”

Vivienne didn’t even stir. Her eyes were still behind their eyelids, her chest rising in incredibly slow increments, and her face was pale, cheeks rosy but but lips white. Arthur swallowed his cherry, the fruit going down like sand in his throat. Leaning down further, he put his ear to her chest. Her heart was beating, but unnaturally slow.

Arthur felt dizzy. His breath was unsteady, his hands trembling, and his eyes searched her body, looked around the room, and then settled back on his mother, zeroing in on her neck. He brushed her thick yellow hair out of the way and felt bile in his mouth as he noticed the wounds on her neck were immediately fresh, recent in what had to have been the last hour that he was out. He put his fingers to the wounds- two red holes torn into her flesh, the skin around them reddish purple like a kiss mark one would suck onto the neck of a lover. 

A hand on Arthur’s shoulder, firm and warm, had him turning mechanically to see Eames standing there, looking sorrowful and flushed. Through the tears welling up in Arthur’s eyes, he could see Eames’ lips were red, his grey-green eyes almost glittering, his skin glowing with more color than it had last time Arthur saw him.

“Eames? My mother. She’s not... I think she’s dead,” Arthur croaked, his voice sounding strange and very far away. Tears were spilling down his face, his breath shallow in his nose and mouth. He felt numb.

Eames nodded. “I made it painless for her. She wouldn’t have lasted another night. Come with me, Arthur. You have nothing left here.”

Arthur didn’t know what to say to that. He stared at Eames and then back at his mother, with her wheat-colored hair in a fan about her shoulder, her dainty hands crossed neatly over his chest, and her white dressing gown sealing the image of her purity in death. She was the Madonna in all her glory, Arthur’s everything now reduced to nothing. 

“You did this?” Arthur found himself saying, his sadness turning to confusion turning to anger. He looked back at Eames, eyes narrowed in heated accusation. “You did this to her?”

Tsking, Eames sat down on the bed beside Arthur and put both his large hands on Arthur’s jaw, thumbs brushing cheekbones in a gentle caress. “Arthur. I did what was needed. Look at me. Look at me and understand that I did it for her, and for you. It was this or an ugly, messy, painful death. I made it easier on everybody.”

Looking into Eames’ eyes blearily, Arthur felt like he understood. There was a depth there, something unnatural that calmed Arthur, made him feel like yes, Eames is telling the truth, and everything would be alright. He nodded, his mouth twisting into a grimace of sadness, but he understood. He wasn’t sure what he understood, but right now, for some reason, Eames was everything to Arthur right now, and that’s all he needed to know.

“Take me,” Arthur half-sobbed. “Take me with you.”

Eames smiled. He leaned in and pressed his mouth to Arthur’s, soft and comfortable and so very right. And then his lips were gone, and he was standing up, taking Arthur’s hand in his, and pulling him from the room. 

There was a carriage waiting outside. Arthur hadn’t even grabbed any of his things- his clothes, his money, the precious trinkets he’d collected through the years. Eames had told him to come, and that was that. 

“What about my father?” he’d asked in a daze, his body hollow and words languid, drugged. 

Eames had looked at him. “Do you really care?”

Arthur sagged against Eames’ side, and didn’t say a word as one big, strong arm wrapped around his shoulders and a sweet mouth pressed to the top of his head. 

“Sleep, Arthur. Tomorrow is a new day.”

  


[ _Street Scene with Carriage_ by Theodore Clement Steele]


	3. Chapter 3

The carriage had taken them to the harbor. And at the harbor was a ship, small and manned only be a few men, which Eames told Arthur was his own ship, bound for Europe.

“To London?” asked Arthur, his voice dead to his own ears. He was a barely animated corpse, ruined by grief. “Is that where you’re from?”

Eames shook his head. “No. The weather is dreadful this time of year.”

If it was a joke, Arthur didn’t laugh. He turned in his bed, stared over at Eames in the dim light. “Don’t you miss her? I thought you loved her.”

Looking over at Arthur, Eames gave a smile that was unmistakably bitter. “You mother was lost to me years ago, Arthur. She was already gone for me. My heart broke over her once, it cannot break again.”

He wasn’t sure what to say to that. For a long moment, he let himself listen to the waves splashing against the wood outside, the creak of the ship as it rocked. Arthur was reminded of his father, and his endless line of cargo and shipping boats. Briefly, he wondered what his father was doing now. Searching for Arthur maybe? Mourning for a dead wife he barely knew?

The silence was broken by Eames this time. He stood from his bed and crossed the small room, sitting down beside Arthur. “I’ll take care of you now. You’ll have whatever you need, and all the freedom in the world, Arthur,” he declared, and then he leaned down, let one hand threat through Arthur’s dark brown hair. “Although I do hope you’ll stay with me. I’ve been terribly lonely, for longer than you can imagine.”

Arthur let his eyes close. He was numb to feeling, numb to emotion, but somehow Eames’ words got into his head, swirled around and made him sleepy, comfortable, at ease. Was this man a magician? Arthur couldn’t explain the magic that was Eames’ coaxing. Arthur’s lips parted and the words that came out were barely a whisper. “Just hold me. Please.”

Eames didn’t say anything, just slid under the covers and pressed himself to Arthur, a hand sliding over the boy’s hip and a mouth going to a brow. The man was warm, almost too warm, and it made Arthur dizzy, but the hand on his hip was firm, a solid weight that grounded Arthur, kept him from spiraling off into a new set of tears. Arthur breathed in the scent of Eames, nose pressed to the man’s collar, and was surprised to find a lack of musky sweat that usually clung to most people. All Arthur could smell was a faint hint of Earth, and something sweet, almost coppery. 

Sleep overtook Arthur before he could think too much about it.

...

They sailed for almost two weeks. Arthur slept most of the time, roused only by Eames encouraging him to eat and drink. A few times, Arthur got up, venture out of the cabin, and went on deck to see the sunlight sparkle on the water. 

There were dolphins, once, and Arthur had never seen dolphins before. A smile spread across his chapped lips, and he winced in pain as his bottom lip cracked open and bled. He watched the dolphins as he dabbed at his lip, tonguing the newly split flesh. When he went back down to the cabin, Eames had looked up from the table where he’d been writing and glanced immediately at Arthur’s mouth.

“What did you do?” Eames asked calmly as Arthur went to the casket with extra clothes and assorted toiletries. 

“Split my lip,” he answered, and pulled out a small jar of animal fat to put on the wound. He sat on the edge of the bed and then Eames was there, sitting so close their knees touched.

“Let me.”

Arthur let the jar be taken from him, and sat there as Eames scooped out a fingerful of the oil and began to dab at his lip. “My arms are not broken. I could have done it,” Arthur stated, staring up at the ceiling as his chin was tilted up.

Eames smirked. “I’m a bit strange like that, I’m afraid. You’ll just have to get used to it.”

Satisfied, Eames put the top back on the jar and set it on the bed. He looked proudly over his handiwork and then took Arthur’s hand in his, turning it over palm-up. There was blood, just the smallest amount, on Arthur’s fingers. Eames brought the palm up to inspect the faint red stains. “You should be more careful,” he said quietly, and pressed his mouth to the soiled digits, sucking the blood from them. 

“Sorry,” Arthur said. “Next time I won’t smile.”

This close, and with the light from the porthole, Arthur could see that Eames was looking a little pale. Not unhealthy, but not full of near as much color as the night they fled Long Island. Fingers still in his mouth, Eames looked at Arthur strangely, a question in his eyes for only the barest of moments, and then he was letting go of Arthur’s hand, nodding and licking his lips. “Go. See the dolphins. I doubt you’ll get much of a view of them when we arrive.”

Arthur frowned. “You don’t want to see them?”

Shaking his head, Eames slid back into his seat at the desk. “I’ve seen dolphins. They hold no interest for me.”

Pursing his lips, Arthur got up and went to the door, pushing it open. He cast one last glance at Eames, a quill back in one hand, and the other hand sunk deep in his hair. 

There were so many questions he wanted to ask Eames, but truthfully, he still felt hollow and dull, depressed to the marrow of his bones. Asking questions was too tedious a task. Maybe after the death of his mother stopped weighing so heavily on his shoulders, he’d begin to care about other things.

...

Halfway through the third week, they docked in the south of France. Arthur had never been so glad to see land. 

It was well into evening, the stars out in the sky and the lamps lit in the streets. Arthur stood on the dock and stared up at the city folding out up into the hills before him. _Surely_ , he thought, _it can’t be this beautiful under the morning light_.

Eames was behind Arthur then, a suitcase in one hand and the other on the small of Arthur’s back. “It’s lovely, isn’t it? I can bring you back if you like, but this is not our destination.”

Arthur frowned deeply, gazing at the city lights and wondering at the sounds of music and laughing as he was led to a carriage. “But we just got here!”

“Yes, and you’re seeing the best part of the city right now, I promise. No one speaks your language here, Arthur, and the beggars will tear you limb from limb. I promise you we will return, but the city is dangerous at night and I’d rather you not be stabbed to death before we reach Bergamo. Come along.”

Annoyed but sated, Arthur followed Eames without anymore complaint. “Can we at least get something to eat?”

Eames turned back, opened his mouth to say something, but then seemed to re-think his words. He looked over at the city lights and grunted. “We’ll get you something. I’m not hungry.”

Arthur grinned. He’d missed walking on sturdy ground.

...

They ended up sitting down a restaurant not far from the harbor. The menu was in French, and Arthur struggled to even pronounce the words. Eames ended up ordering for him. 

As they waited for Arthur’s food, he took a moment to look around. The faces didn’t look much different than those he’d see in New York, but there was an air about the patrons that felt different for sure. The clothes were fancier than back home, and the women wore corsets that bared more of their breasts than would be seen where Arthur grew up. He found himself staring at the women with their breasts on display, wondering idly if Eames would give him an hour to find a nice French girl to lift her skirts for him.

Eames cleared his throat and Arthur looked at him. Was he annoyed? At what?

“I know Americans are lax in their manners, but try not to stare, Arthur.”

Arthur flushed and kept his eyes averted, fingers playing with the napkin in his lap. 

“There’s a much better selection where we’re going, anyway. You don’t ever want to lay with women who live at a port. The sailors bring syphilis, among other things,” Eames added, humor tinting his words.

Looking up, Arthur narrowed his eyes. “I lived at a port all my life. Do _I_ look diseased?”

Eames looked at Arthur seriously, and then Arthur’s eyes widened and he blanched. He was reminded suddenly of the evening when he first met Eames. Arthur _is_ diseased. 

The joy of finally getting off the ship, of seeing France for the first time in his life, vanished. Arthur slumped in his chair. “I am no longer hungry.”

Waving his hand impatiently, Eames drawled, “Nonsense. Look, here is your meal. You must eat, Arthur.”

“Why? To keep up my strength? If I’m dying, why does it matter?” Arthur asked petulantly, his voice barely audible. The plate of food was set in front of him. If he wasn’t feeling like utter shit, it might have looked delicious. 

Before the waiter could go, Eames spoke to the man in French, motioning to the food and then nodding at Arthur. The man frowned down at Arthur but nodded and took the food away.

Arthur looked at Eames. “Are we done here?”

“No. And if you keep this attitude the entire way to Bergamo, I’m going to strangle you.”

Arthur said nothing to that, only glared at the wall and waited.

The waiter came back with a cloth bag, a fresh baguette protruding from the top. The contents of the bag smelled wonderful. Arthur hated himself for ruining his own appetite. Eames paid the waiter and stood, snatching the bag off the table. “We’re done now. Come.”

Later, in the carriage, Arthur would peek into the bag curiously. Glass jars of what looked like butter and jam were in the bottom, with napkins containing biscuits and rolls on top of the jars. It was travel food. 

“It’s yours. Eat it,” Eames said, not even looking at Arthur. His gaze was focused on the houses and buildings outside, the treeline and the lamps lighting their way.

Arthur asked, “What about you?”

Eames looked at him. “I’ll eat later.”

Shrugging, Arthur opened a jar of strawberry jam and busied himself nibbling on a biscuit. His hunger broke through his depression and he made himself a proper meal out of the biscuits and rolls. He’d discovered sausage as well, and the warmth of the food in his stomach had brightened his mood considerably. Now he was just tired, and again, Eames gladly accepted him under his arm, and Arthur drifted into a light slumber against the man’s side. 

He dreamt of the bite marks on his mother’s neck, dreamt that they began to appear on his own neck as well. When he woke some time later, his hand immediately went to his neck. There was nothing. Eames looked down at him questioningly, and Arthur licked his lips, embarrassed. 

“Bad dreams,” he said.

Eames nodded and accepted Arthur back against his side, petting the boy’s hair gently until Arthur felt back into a sleep. This time, he didn’t dream.

  


[ _The Port of Bordeaux_ by Eugene Boudin]


	4. Chapter 4

As smart as Arthur was, he of course knew where France was on a map. And though they travelled by evening, he’d seen the sun rise and set, and knew what direction they were headed: Italy.

Eames didn’t look surprised when they stepped out of the carriage on that final voyage day and Arthur sighed in appreciation at the vast countryside spotted with houses and said, “So this is Italy. I thought I’d never see it. I’ve only ever seen pictures and heard stories. It’s beautiful, Eames.”

They had stopped in a town, a painted sign on the side of one building declaring it the Bergamo Tavern, and Arthur had smiled. He’d been smiling more over the past few days, his body and mind unable to keep up with the ache in his heart and eventually giving in to the sights and smells and tastes of Europe, all of which were beautiful, wonderful, delicious. For all Arthur’s knowledge and wit, he’d never been outside of America. The green fields and cement architecture, brick houses and lush surrounding forests were straight out of a dream.

“Don’t get comfortable yet. Just because we’re done in the carriage doesn’t mean we’re done travelling.”

Arthur grimaced back at Eames, who was paying the carriageman and being handed his single suitcase. “You jest. It’s been almost a month Eames, where the hell are we going?”

Eames looked wholly unruffled. “Up there, Arthur Darling,” he replied, pointing not to anywhere in the town, but rather to a hill in the distance, where a château sat surrounded by a thicket of trees. “An hour more and we’ll be done, I promise. I don’t know about you, but I could use a hot bath.”

Following Eames’ gesture, Arthur spotted the château on the hill, the view obscured slightly by sparse fog, but it was still obvious the place was old-- damned old. And big. “You live there?” he asked Eames, incredulous.

“I own it, yes. I live there. I live other places. I don’t consider any place my home,” came the lofty reply, Eames not really paying attention as they made their way casually down a stone street.

Arthur, unburdened with luggage, stuffed his hands in his pockets. “You are a very strange person, Mister Eames. You are constantly surprising me.”

Turning to smile coyly at Arthur, Eames replied, “You don’t know the half of it.”

At the horse stalls, Eames was immediately recognized by the attendant. They spoke to each other, Eames in fluent Italian that had Arthur in awe, and then they were given two horses-- beautiful black beasts, saddled in fine leather and obviously well-groomed.

“Which one am I taking?” Arthur asked, reaching out his hand to gently pet one on the snout.

“You’re riding with me. On this one,” Eames said.

Arthur turned to him questioningly. “There’s two horses. Why am I riding with you?”

Before answering, Eames went to the other horse and put his heavy case up on the animal’s back, the attending helping him to strap the thing in place. “Where else am I going to put my things? I don’t see why it’s a problem, Arthur.”

After those first few days where Arthur had needed to be held and petted, his heart shattered and in need of assistance being picked up, Arthur had begun to keep a respectable distance from Eames. He didn’t want anyone getting the wrong idea-- especially Eames, who was a strangely affectionate person with little personal boundaries. Arthur found the man attractive for sure, but buggery was an offense punishable by death, and Arthur’s father had said more than once that it was unnatural for two to lay with each other.

Affection was one thing, but Arthur was wary of bringing God’s wrath down on himself, let alone the wrath of the law should someone find out Arthur’s inclinations leaned towards more than just pretty young ladies. For Arthur, men were look-but-don’t-touch.

“Are you coming?”

Arthur looked up at Eames, who’d mounted the horse and was looking back at him expectantly. He sighed inwardly and grabbed the hand Eames offered, taking his place in front of Eames on the horse. The position wasn’t totally uncomfortable, but the saddle’s horn was going to be an annoying friction against his prick. “Can’t we get one more horse?” he tried, looking longingly at the stall with the other animals.

Eames snorted and took the reins firmly in hand, turning them in the proper direction. He didn’t even dignify the question with a response.

The trail leading up the hillside went through a forest, and Arthur would have been lying if he’d said the darkness between the trees didn’t leave him uneasy. There was moonlight, and lamps along the road, but no one else was travelling the path, and Arthur couldn’t help the furtive looks he was shooting the treeline every other moment.

Sounding utterly amused, Eames spoke at Arthur’s shoulder, “Don’t worry. The bandits stopped haunting these woods years ago. It seems someone started lining the grounds with bear traps after thievery became too big of a problem.”

Arthur barked a laugh. “Bear traps? And how is that safe for the every-day traveller wanting to step off the beaten path?”

Eames shrugged. “You can’t please everyone.”

 

...

The nice thing about the relationship between Arthur and Eames was that there weren't a lot of questions asked between them. Eames seemed to know Arthur's mood wonderfully, only ever appearing when Arthur was indifferent or needy, wanting company or affection. And Eames was incredibly independant, easy to please. There was very little fighting when there was any at all.

Eames on the other hand, was strange, and Arthur didn't know what to make of it sometimes, yet knew better than to ask. Eames would sleep during the day, down the long flight of stairs to a bedroom with a heavy locked door, and then reemerge as the sun sank out of view, refreshed and ready to get about his day's work.

There was a question on Arthur's lips that always hung in the air about them when Arthur sat at the dining table and ate, and Eames would sit and not even bother with the pretense of eating, choosing instead to sip from a glass of deep red wine that he never offered to serve to Arthur. Eames read through a book, or looked over paperwork, and Arthur would eat and wonder that Eames never seemed to grow weak or frail from not eating actual food.

But the question was never asked, because something in Arthur told him that he already knew the answer. Eames was agreeable enough that Arthur didn't insult him by asking stupid things. The man provided all things for Arthur-- food, clothing, entertainment, a roof over his head and the means to travel if he wanted to, and yet Eames never asked for anything in return. What right did Arthur have to even doubt the man was a Good person?

The things that might have mattered came to Arthur anyway, without him ever needing to ask.

Eames' money, which seemed some days to be not an object, but a number that bent to Arthur's needs, came from many places. One place, was the vineyard in the back of Eames' home. The hills behind the château were spotted with olives and grapes of all kinds, sprinkled with roses and tiger lillies, exotic flowers Arthur did not know the name of, and even fruits like peaches and plums. Arthur woke up one early morning to find that the vineyards and gardens were tended by well-paid men who took the fruit and flowers back into the town below, and sold them. The grapes, one man told Arthur, went to make wine that was sent back to Eames and put away for storage.

When asked about it, Eames supplied, "They sell what they get from me, and not only do I recieve a cut, but I also get a lot of free meals out of it. Say I want to go into town and eat. They give me whatever I want. The flowers, I just sell those. They're nice to see, but I really have no use for them."

Arthur was impressed. "And you have different men to tend the fields for you as well?"  
Eames nodded.

And just as Arthur was mulling it all over in his head, wondering if that would even cover half the expenses of Eames' lavish lifestyle, Eames smiled over at him. "Would you like to know where the rest of it comes from?"

"...The rest of your money?"

"Yes," Eames said offhand. "I assume you'll be quite impressed, if not astonished. Come along then."

Eames grabbed a thick candle from the mantle and lit it, wordlessly leading the way to the door that led down long, winding stairs, into the depths of the château. Arthur had been down here one other time- when he was shown to Eames’ room, which the man asked Arthur do not enter without permission. It was terribly creepy, dimly lit, and very cold. The rooms down in that part of the manor, as Eames had said previously, were only used for storage. Boring, really.

In retrospect, Arthur was wholly unsurprised that Eames would keep a secret fortune down there.

Arthur followed Eames closely as they walked down the long stone hall, then turned into a room stacked high with sacks of varying grains. Eames set down the candle, and bent to move some of the sacks out of the way to reveal a set of crates on the ground. The lid was taken off one to reveal an assortment of gold and silver coins, some marked and some unmarked. Arthur had vaguely imagined some sort of pirate's booty, with jewelry and gems, diamonds and rubies and emeralds, maybe even diamond-encrusted tiaras and gaudy gold goblets. This was, he admitted, more realistic. But still impressive. He looked over at the other crates, and up at Eames. "How many are there? Just these ones?"

Eames shrugged. "I don't know how many there are. More than this. Here, see?" He didn't bother putting the top back on the crate before turning and gently spilling one of the grain sacks out onto the ground at their feet. Only the top was covered in grains apparently-- the rest was something more along the lines of what Arthur had been imagining. Gems and gold coins, jewelry and cups, an assortment of loot that one might find in a skilled thief's home.

Crouching down, Arthur reached out to spread the coins and chunks of gold, fingering the diamonds and examining the strings of pearls. He grinned up at Eames. "So, what’s this about then? Are you a pirate?"

A laugh erupted from Eames, and even in the dark light, Arthur could see the point of sharp teeth in the man's mouth. Eames leaned heavily against a shelf, shaking his head. "I am not, Arthur. No."

Standing, Arthur crossed his arms over his chest, the chill from the room slowly becoming too much. "Well, you're set for life. I applaud you."

Eames smiled, tilting his head. "I'm set for quite a long time, yes. And you are as well, Arthur Darling."

Arthur blushed. "What do you mean?"

"You live here. This is all yours as well. I imagine you'll get more use out of it than me."

"But I... No, this isn't mine. I've known you for... Eames, I don't know you," Arthur said quietly, squinting in the dark at Eames' eyes that seemed almost to glitter in the dim light, his strangely pale skin, his hair that hasn't grown an inch since they got here.

Eames hummed, sliding his hands into his pockets. "You will know me. Give it time."

Glaring, Arthur huffed and turned for the door. "Come on. I've seen your secret fortune and now I want dinner."

There were very little rules that Arthur had to follow while living with Eames. Back home, Arthur had many freedoms, but there were many restrictions while living with his mother in his father's house. He'd been unable to choose a wife of his own, unable to drink liquor, unable to have weapons, unable to pick out his own clothes... Stupid, childish rules that most youth in America had to deal with.

Here in Italy, Arthur wasn't allowed in Eames' room, and he wasn't allowed to bring anyone back to the house. And if he went out after dark, Eames was to go with him. That was all. Arthur was allowed to drink, to bed women, regularly picked out his own clothes, and Eames had urged him to carry a gun when in town. Arthur felt like an adult when he was with Eames.

Even coming back to the chateau every night had been a request instead of a requirement.

But Arthur had had a taste of travel, of seeing foreign soil, and Eames had promised to take Arthur back to see France at some point. Eventually, the need to see more than Bergamo became too much.

The day that Arthur finally decided to ask Eames if they could leave Bergamo, Arthur found that Eames was unusually unoccupied, sitting in an armchair near one of the windows, looking out at the last of the season’s sparse snowfall.

“Eames,” Arthur started, and the man just looked over serenely, hands crossed in his lap. He looked pale, but not unhealthy. “What do you think about… Taking me to see the world? I want to go back and see France. I want to see England. I want to go to Germany and Greece, to- to everywhere that you’re willing to take me. You said you have other places- other homes. I want to see the places you’ve seen. Bergamo is beautiful, but you’ve got the money to take me wherever I want to go, don’t you?”

Eames hadn’t even pretended to mull it over, mind clearly made up before Arthur had even finished speaking. But he affected a sigh anyway, mock irritation in his voice. “Do you really want to be stuck on another boat? In a carriage for weeks? We just got here, Arthur. What can you see elsewhere that isn’t here? There’s houses, trees, people. Same as everywhere else.”

Arthur tried to keep his smile hidden, his excitement contained, but his dimples came out anyway as he slid onto Eames’ lap and laid a hand on the man’s shoulder. They’d played this game so many times, flirting and touching endlessly, but always fleeting and never did it lead to sex. Arthur knew Eames would do it, and the unbidden affection he had for the man only increased.

But, just to play along, Arthur pretended to have to beg. He wasn’t above sliding in close to Eames, legs between Eames’ thighs, lashes lowered and mouth pressed to Eames’ brow. “Come on. Take me to see the world. We’ll stop in every town, eat at every restaurant. We can go to Venice and ride a gondola- you know I’ve always wanted to do that? And I’ve always loved the idea of seeing a Grecian amphitheater. I’ve read about them, and they sound wonderful. Have you seen one before? I bet you have.”

Eames’ hand went to Arthur’s waist, his nose to Arthur’s jaw. “And what do I get out of this?”

“Mmm… The pleasure of my company?” Arthur asked, tilting his head back as Eames nosed at his pulse point. (It was a weird habit the man had picked up, but Arthur didn’t mind it.)

“I can get that here as well,” Eames countered.

Arthur pouted. “Then I guess I have nothing to offer.”

Eames hummed in thought, his fingers grazing over Arthur’s hip, his thigh, dragged down to settle on Arthur’s knee. “I don’t know about that. There’s plenty you have that I don’t. That I could never get…”

Swallowing thickly, Arthur took his hand from Eames’ shoulder and cupped the older man’s jaw. He wasn’t sure why he said it, but the words were out before he could wrangle them in. “Anything that I have is yours. Whatever you want, all you need is to take it.”

A whisper against the skin of Arthur’s neck, and Eames suddenly sounded tired, exhausted, old. “I know,” he said, and then he was gently ushering Arthur out of his lap, standing up and smoothing the front of his rumpled shirt. “I’ll have to get my affairs in order. We’ll leave tomorrow.”

Arthur felt cold, clammy. He watched Eames leave the room, watched him walk away, and wondered briefly if he’d said something he shouldn’t have. Surely not- not with the way Eames looked at him, not with the way they flirted so often, not with the way Eames’ hands always lingered for longer than necessary on Arthur’s skin. But Eames didn’t seem angry, only fatigued. Arthur had gotten what he’d wanted and, selfishly, he was satisfied with that.

 

...

There was no need to pack. Each of them left with the clothes on their backs, and only Eames carried more- a gun in his jacket along with a purse stuffed full of coins. Arthur was excited.

They did exactly as Arthur stated- each night, they stopped off in a town and spent as much time there as Arthur wanted. Arthur ate the most exotic, extravagant, strange meals, he stood in the streets and listened to musicians play for coin, all sorts of instruments that Arthur had never even known existed. And during the day while Eames stayed in and slept, Arthur went out on the town by himself to experience the love of European women. He loved their dark skin, their even darker hair, the way they bared their skin brazenly for him. American women were so damned prude!

Arthur would go back to the hotel at night, crawl into bed with Eames, and tangle himself in the man’s limbs like a child. Cold hands would ghost over his skin, a big mouth would seal itself to his neck, his shoulder, and Arthur, half asleep and drunk off wine, would sigh and coo in Eames’ arms, recalling the day to him. Whatever they shared was deeper than the lust Arthur carried for women. It brought Arthur back to Eames’ embrace every night, it made him feel safe and loved, it filled and covered the gaping cavern in Arthur’s chest that his mother’s death had created.

From Bergamo, they went to Milan. From there, it was Genoa. And over the next few months, they covered one coastline, then the next, and everything in between. Arthur enjoyed Florence, found Verona charming, and they spent an entire month in Venice, the Summer weather and romantic air of the city making Arthur wonder if all this was Heaven. Had he died with his mother back in that den in Long Island? Surely he hadn’t been good enough to deserve all of this.

In the middle of May, Eames bought the two of them a gondola ride that took them everywhere the city offered. As soon as the sun sunk below the horizon, they left the hotel and were off, Eames lying back comfortably and not really paying attention, and Arthur sitting at his side, eyes wide and grin even wider.

After a thorough exploration of the city, Arthur had polished off an entire bottle of wine and was happily drunk, lying against Eames’ chest on the padded floor of the gondola. They were docked in a back alley, just the two of them in the narrow boat, and Arthur was babbling on about where they would go next, what city, as Eames threaded his fingers affectionately through Arthur’s hair. There were torches lit, and windows high up on buildings emitted the sound of laughter and conversation in a language Arthur did not know but found almost as intoxicating as the wine he’d gorged on.

“I want to go back to Naples. I liked it there,” slurred Arthur, his eyes closed as he basked in the warmth of the night air. Eames, pressed beside him, was cold as ever. It was a strangely comfortable contrast.

“We can go back if you like,” Eames purred, his other hand playing at the strings of Arthur’s pants. “We can go wherever you want, love.”

Arthur nodded. “Naples then. I want to learn Italian, too. I hate having you translate everything for me.”

Eames pressed a kiss to Arthur’s crown. “Of course. Whatever you want.”

Another nod from Arthur. “How many languages do you know again? I want to learn them all.”

“Too many. Don’t worry about it,” Eames assured, and then his fingers stopped playing at Arthur’s strings, and they began to tug in earnest, slowly freeing Arthur’s cock from its confines. He stroked Arthur carefully, pressing kisses to the boy’s closed eyelids, his nose, his cupid’s bow mouth. This was the most Eames had ever touched Arthur. Other than the odd kiss here and there, Eames made sure to give Arthur his space. His touches though, were sure and confident, slow and loving. Arthur’s thighs spread just a little, and Eames smiled against Arthur’s temple. “Do you like that?”

Arthur nodded.

“Tell me you like it.”

“I like it. Yes,” Arthur pouted, opening his eyes to see Eames staring down at him. “Kiss me.”

And Eames did. He leaned down and pressed their mouths together, Arthur’s lips sour with the residual taste of grapes and cheeses and expensive wine. They kissed as Eames touched Arthur, the boat rocking minutely on the moonlit water and the sound of laughter drifted in the air from somewhere nearby. All was slowly being drowned out by the blood pounding in Arthur’s ears.

Somehow, this was better than private trysts with nameless women. This was better than the girls that batted their eyelashes and bared their breasts for Arthur. Just lying here, Eames’ hands on him, Eames _**kissing** _ him, was better than any sex Arthur had ever had. He never wanted anyone _else_ to touch him ever again.

He came, gasping against Eames’ mouth, cum dribbling hotly down the man’s chilly hand. Arthur moaned, his body feeling boneless and heavy, Eames’ hand still stroking him slowly, milking him dry. “Shit,” was all he could say, chest heaving and toes curled in his leather shoes. “Shit.”

And then Eames- the man who never ate a single morsel of food in front of Arthur- began to lap up the spent seed that coated his fingers and the back of his hand. Arthur watched in awe as Eames sucked the fluid from his hand, tongue laving between fingers and over knuckles, and then Eames was licking his lips and grinning down at Arthur flirtatiously. “Something wrong, pet?”

Arthur shook his head. “No. Nothing.”

Eames leaned down and pressed a kiss to Arthur’s mouth, no tongue this time, only the affectionate press of lips on lips. “Good. Let’s go back to the hotel, you look a proper mess.”

 

...

“Venice is tiring me. Let’s leave,” Eames whined, pressing a soft kiss to Arthur’s bare shoulder.

Arthur, who stood at the balcony of the hotel room, looking out at the early-evening horizon, sighed. “But it’s beautiful here. I don’t want to _ever_ leave.”

Eames huffed. “We can come back. We have all the time in the world, Arthur.”

“Maybe you do, but I don’t,” Arthur morosely quipped, and turned to Eames. “But let’s go then. I want to see Greece.”

Looking almost annoyed, Eames watched as Arthur pulled a shirt over his head, silent only for a moment. “Would you like to talk about it?”

Arthur shrugged. “What is there to talk about? I’m sick, am I not? I’m going to die, just as my mother died.”

Eames rolled his eyes. “Don’t be so uptight. You know nothing about your health outside what I’ve told you.”

“Mm. You didn’t _tell_ me anything. Not really,” Arthur drawled, pulling his waistcoat on and buttoning the front slowly. He didn’t want to fight, but the occasional bicker was a nice stress-reliever. Where his illness was concerned, he’d sort of taken Eames’ word and whenever he deigned to question it, the memory of Eames’ hand on his shoulder, of his lungs burning like fire, his head fuzzy like cotton, resurfaced. He’d been told he was going to die, and strangely enough, he knew it. He could feel in the sinews of his very being, that his early demise was set in stone.

“I’m not a doctor, there isn’t much to tell. You have what your mother had. It’s in your blood. That is all I know. But if you’d like to talk about it, we can talk about it. I’m here for you, and if there’s anything you want to say, there’s nothing I do better than listen.”

Arthur clenched his eyes shut. “Maybe I want you to do more than listen.”

Eames looked at him, face impassive. “What more can I do that I have not done already?”

Turning, Arthur gave an exhausted, sad smile. Eames had done everything. Eames had been the perfect escort to Arthur’s inevitable death bed. He held out his arms, spread wide and inviting. “Nevermind. You're perfect. You do everything for me, there's nothing more you could possibly do for me."

As Eames stood and came forward, slipping his arms around Arthur’s waist and pulling him close, Arthur hummed in pleasure. Eames pressed his mouth to Arthur's ear, and Arthur swore he could feel the point of sharp teeth. "Just ask. All you ever have to do is ask."

"I know," Arthur croaked, and he could already feel the beginnings of an erection pressing against Eames' leg. When had he become so pathetically needy in every way?  
Their mouths came together once more, and Arthur forgot why such a question was even relevant.

 

...

They stayed in Venice another month.

 

 

 

[ _Gondolas Along Venetian Canal_ by William Merritt Chase]


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warning for attempted self harm, and death (not a main character.)

At 23, Arthur grew bored with constant travelling. He wanted something new. 

With a heart still hollowed by his mother's absence, he grew restless and pined for a woman's love in his life. He wanted to try having a family. 

Eames seemed distraught but understanding. "Are you sure? Well alright, but I'm not going to come running every time you need your shoes tied, Darling-- if you want to be a man and have a family, you'll have to live with that decision," he mused in a put-upon manner, the corners of his plush mouth downturned and his eyes pointedly averted. "It's that brunette who works the flower shop, isn't it? I've seen you give her the eye, Arthur. She always asks about you. It's sickening, really, how cute you two are."

Arthur laughed and blushed. "Well she's no handsome British man with treasure troves of money, but she is quite beautiful."

Eames had sighed then, and ended the conversation with, "No, she'll never be me. Sorry, love."

They both knew that Eames would never be able to fill the void like a woman could, and of course Eames was unable to bear children-- something Arthur wanted in life. So Eames was silent as Arthur left in his best suit, his hair slicked back with grease, and went into town to woo the woman he'd been not-so-secretly courting for weeks. 

Arthur married her in the Summer and Eames sent the two of them off to the coast with enough money to live comfortably for quite some time. 

Eames moved back to Bergamo, to the lonesome manor with the endless gardens. A story unfolded in the next two years, through a series of decreasingly detailed letters, each of them starting with “Mr. Eames,” and ending with, “Still yours, Arthur.” 

It would seem that Arthur was having a wonderful time in Santorini, with the painted white arches and domes, the churches, and his new wife with the long brown hair and big blue eyes. She was pregnant and Arthur positively gushed over the idea of fathering a child, of being there for his son (or daughter) like his own father never was. Looking at the date Arthur had written in, Eames supposed Arthur’s wife was probably well on her way to being full term by this point. 

The letters had started out colorful, rich, and extensive. Oh, Eames, Auxesia is more than I could have ever hoped for in a wife. Her English is getting better as is my Greek, and the both of us are having a wonderful time in Santorini. I visit the ocean every day, and it’s almost as beautiful as Venice. The water is crystal blue and very warm. You’d hate it here, probably. I miss you. Auxesia sends her regards. Etc, etc.

... 

As Arthur’s marriage began it’s third year, the letters eventually tapered off. Luke is getting so big. I wish you could see him. He looks more like his mother every day. Auxesia sends her regards. Etc.

Eames was wholly unsurprised when the letters stopped altogether.

...

...

Greece was beautiful. Auxesia, Arthur’s wife, even more beautiful still. And when their son Luke was born, he was the culmination of all things perfect. Arthur could almost forget his old life back in Long Island, with his cold father and fair-haired mother. And although he could never forget Eames, he knew that the happiness he had here with his wife and child was not to be matched while Arthur stayed in Eames’ company. It was a wholly different experience, and Arthur wanted to soak up every moment of it.

After all, Eames wasn’t going anywhere. The letters Arthur received back from Eames (when he did get any back) assured Arthur that should he change his mind and want to flee the life of the dutiful husband, Eames would be waiting for him in Bergamo. It had become almost a nuisance, the surety with which Eames seemed to know Arthur would change his mind. In response, Arthur cruelly wrote less and less until he stopped writing at all. It was ungrateful of him for sure, but when you were this happy, it was incredibly easy to forget about things that didn’t get your everyday attention.

He had become a man in three years’ time, and egotistically thought he didn’t need Eames’ patronage any longer. 

That was until Arthur’s 26th year, when a nasty cold front swept the Grecian coastline and left in its wake a terrible chill that clung to the skin and fevered the lungs of residents populating the coastline. 

Arthur’s wife and child didn’t make it through the winter. 

Luke went first, coddled in Auxesia’s arms. Arthur hadn’t caught the chill. He’d looked on, a cursed man once again, unable to do a damn thing as the people he loved most in the world cleaved desperately to a life that did not want them. As Auxesia sobbed over her lost child, Arthur vomited in the backyard, shaking terribly. He wondered pathetically where Eames was, _really_ , and if Eames could have helped if he’d been here-- helped in his strange way, the _demon_ as his mother had called him. A demon with the power to Know things, and to Help. Arthur had dumbly thought he’d never need Eames again, had dumbly imagined the years between this life and his first to be a dream, and Eames’ existence a mere stepping stone rather than a linchpin. 

When Auxesia followed Luke, Arthur stared at her limp, colorless body for hours before going to the bathroom and getting out his straight razor. 

He was obviously not meant to be happy. The two women he’d ever loved in his life were taken from him, along with the physical manifestation of his and Auxesia’s love for each other. 

Luke hadn’t even been three. 

The razor was a sparkling silver that gleamed in the last of the day’s sunlight and too sharp to get any use out of. Auxesia had shaved him with it once and they’d never used it again, her hand too shaky, afraid she’d cut him and he’d bleed to death. She made him promise he’d never use it, to just go to the barber instead. 

It was all a jest, now.

The razor pressed neatly against the line of his forearm, brown from the sun after three years of working under it’s unforgiving rays. And as he began to press it harder into his flesh, drag it across sensitive tendons, the only thought that could cross his mind was that he missed Eames so very much.

Cold fingers like iron were on his wrist, jerking his hand away in an instant. The razor clattered to the floor. Arthur turned and looked through gushing tears, vision too blurry to clearly see, and he laughed as Eames stared back at him with a murderous glare. 

“Eames,” Arthur said, unable to hold back the smile on his face. “There you are.”

Eames slapped him with a hard, broad hand, sending him crashing into the wall and stumbling into the tub. Arthur saw white, felt his mouth filling with copper, and reeled as Eames verbally unleashed Hell’s Fury on him. 

Admittedly, Arthur didn’t understand a word of it. His face ached terribly where Eames had slapped him, and he couldn’t seem to stop laughing for some reason. His arm still bled from the small cut he’d inflicted, deep but short in length. Everything seemed funny to him: Eames’ accent, the salty smell of the sea that always permeated the air thickly in Santorini and was too overwhelming now, the red of Eames’ face, the fact that he was flat on his ass in a washtub, and of course, funniest of all, the idea that Arthur could have ever lived another day of his life without Eames.

...

“You stopped writing,” Eames said later as he kissed Arthur’s closed eyelids.

Arthur had no idea where they were. They were no longer in his Grecian home, and he was with Eames, and really, that’s all that mattered. 

“I know,” said Arthur. “I’m sorry.”

Eames kissed his mouth. “I know.”

  


[ _Evening in Poros_ by Julia Watkins]


	6. Chapter 6

They didn't stay long in any place after that. 

There was Plovdiv, and then Bucharest, and the far east was too cold for Arthur's taste at that time of year so they moved on quickly past Cluj-Napoca and into the borders of Hungary, and to Budapest. 

The garb was different, as was the language, and the selection of food in the open markets. There were bugs and flowers to eat, and the women wore gaudy jewelry that Arthur had ever only seen in paintings and books. Eames seemed endlessly bored with it all, but he encouraged Arthur's exploration and curiosity. 

Arthur's eyes never lingered too long over the women anymore either. He stopped resisting the natural attraction he had to Eames, and at night Arthur would crawl into bed and submit to the pleasures that making love to another man could afford. 

Eames was all too happy to oblige Arthur's sexual appetite. After they were done writing in the sheets like teenage lovers, Arthur would bathe, and Eames would continue touching him, kissing him, drawing out the most obscene noises the young man had to offer. Arthur had never had fingers in his rear, let alone a tongue, but these were things Arthur quickly learned to appreciate, and eventually, ask for almost nightly. 

Afterwards, Arthur would doze on the bed, the lamp light dreamy and glittering in his vision, and Eames would soothe his sore muscles, massage Arthur's tense shoulders. Arthur wondered why he ever even tried to fight his homosexual feelings before. This life was just too perfect. He hadn't needed to start a family with a stranger-- he had a family all along, and it was Eames.

...

Their ultimate goal was Paris. Or rather, Arthur's ultimate goal was Paris, and Eames reluctantly agreed that they _might_ end up in Paris. Maybe. Eventually. Arthur could have made the trip himself, probably, but did not want tom make the mistake of leaving Eames' side again.

They breached the borders of Ukraine by stopping in Lutsk, and they brushed Belarus in Kobryn. Again, the spring was just too cold and Arthur wanted to hurry up to the western (Parisian) coast. After spending a week in Alytus, they skirted the coast to Gdansk, where Arthur fell in love with the music and the friendly community. Eames lagged behind as Arthur danced with strangers in pubs, ate sweets from every shop, and bought a new suit tailored perfectly to his lithe curves. 

It was Denmark then, and Arthur liked it even more than Poland. The young men were very attractive, and Eames smiled when Arthur tentatively asked if it'd be alright to make love to some of them. 

"I don't care who you sleep with, Arthur," Eames had assured him, "As long as you come home to me."

Arthur had spent a week trying out a dozen or so of Denmark's finest young men. Beautiful, blond, with funny accents and uncircumcised pricks, Arthur mounted all of them like a spring hare, appreciating the variety and subtle differences between not only the other Danes, but Eames as well. 

He wouldn't let any of them mount _him_. Eames had said it would be alright, but Arthur steadfastly refused. And when Arthur was done dawdling with the boys of Denmark, Eames spent a month reintroducing Arthur to the art being on the receiving end of a prick. 

Arthur was bitter that they weren't in Paris by his 27th birthday. "Wouldn't that have been the best present, though?" he whined, and Eames rolled his eyes, shaking his head. 

From Hamburg they would go to Bremen, and then to Amsterdam. And from there, it was Gent, a short stop in Luxembourg just to quell Arthur's curiosity, and finally, they'd cross the French border and make their way to Paris. Or at least, that was their plan. 

The coughing started in Hamburg. Eames watched as Arthur began to clear his throat more often, breaking into coughing fits in the middle of the night and brushing it off as a cold from Spring's last snow. At the constant worried looks from Eames, Arthur finally sagged against the older man's side and asked, "This is it, isn't it? It starts with the coughing. This time next week I'll probably have a fever. And next month..."

Eames kissed the top of Arthur's head. "I suspect as much."

Arthur was silent a moment. "Will you make it easy for me? Like you did with Mother?"

"If you like, yes. Of course."

Nodding, Arthur sighed. "I won't even get a proper burial. I let you... I gave myself to you, and I'm... Well, I'm not the same anymore. The priest won't bless me, will he? I'll just... I'll be thrown in some unmarked grave. They probably won't even cover me up, just let the crows pick me clean," he laughed, and the sound came out hollow. 

Eames scoffed. "You believe in that, do you? God? You really think there's a God up there letting all this happen? This poverty you've seen firsthand, and war, and sickness? You think God would take your mother from you?"

Arthur wanted to be angry. He'd been raised Christian, although not devout. At this point, he didn't know _what_ to believe. He slumped away, but there wasn't much room to move in the little carriage, so his thigh was still pressed close to Eames'. "Maybe."

Sighing in exasperation, Eames looked sidelong at Arthur with a sour scowl. "Forgive me for my heresy little lord, but I've seen too much in my life to believe there is anything in this world but nature and people's own will. "

There was nothing left for Arthur to say. There was no arguing the faint itch in his chest, the chronic need to cough that tickled the back of his throat.

...

In Groningen, Arthur no longer wanted to explore the cities. He'd begun wheezing, coughing up disgusting yellow mucus, and he was too tired to want to do anything other than continue on their way to Paris. It was maybe 3 weeks away, and Arthur didn't want to waste any more time.

At night, Arthur would lie in Eames' arms as Eames pressed his mouth to his neck, prick the skin with too-sharp eyeteeth, and Arthur would relax back into the comfortable bliss of uninterrupted sleep. It was the same thing Eames had done for his mother, and just like her, Arthur would wake with wounds on his neck. He wondered if he really _was_ selling his soul.

...

"I can make it stop, you know."

Arthur looked at Eames with a tired expression. He was bone-tired, mentally and physically. "And, what, I just live forever with you in Paris, like some fairy tale?"

Eames' mouth twitched into a pained frown. "You can do whatever you want, Darling. I'm not forcing myself on you."

They'd had to stop travelling. Mere days from the French border, the constant movement of their carriage had become too much for Arthur and they'd had to halt their journey for fear of Arthur vomiting up what little food he managed to hold down. 

"And if I say no?" Arthur asked, sweaty and delirious. His eyes were red-rimmed, lips chapped dry. "Will I be the ungrateful whore? The waste of time?"

Shaking his head sadly, Eames leaned down and pressed a kiss to the corner of Arthur's mouth, brushed the stray strands of wet hair out of the way and spoke in a whisper. "You're not a waste of time. I can only offer this once, you know. I wouldn't offer such a thing to someone I thought was a waste of time."

Arthur sniffled, pretended he didn't care. He'd reverted to childlike petulance once the sickness set in, endlessly bitter that he never made it to the one place he wanted to go. "I don't want whatever it is you have to offer. I'm going to see my mother again, Eames. _You_ can't give her back. Death can."

A sour look passed Eames' face. "Heaven is it? You think you'll be going there when you die, then? You still believe in your God-- the one who's taken everything from you? You really think you'll be going to a place like Heaven? I've had my prick in your arse, sweetheart, I don't think God takes kindly to buggery. But do say hello to Saint Peter for me, or Paul, whatever his bloody name is.”

Any vulnerability, any dignity Arthur might have reserved in his time of weakness, collapsed in a gush of tears. Eames sat back and watched as Arthur rolled over and cried into the pillow. It wasn't loud or dramatic, just a steady stream of thick tears that didn't stop until Eames took pity on Arthur and sunk his teeth into the sick man's neck. 

The tears waned and trickled off, leaving Arthur's eyes itchy and bloodshot. But the pain was gone from his lungs, for a time at least. 

Eames lay behind Arthur, gently kissing the fresh wounds at his neck. The blood had stopped flowing from them but the taste still lingered.

...

Very obviously on his deathbed, Arthur began to fight in earnest. With the last of his energy afforded with Eames' bite, Arthur fled the inn they'd been staying at. Dressed in only a tunic, he dashed out like a madman into the daylight hours when he knew Eames would not come get him. In his madness, he intended to see Paris, even if he had to get there on foot.

Every step was on trembling legs and every breath was terribly labored. With the thick mucus he coughed up also came blood, and Arthur stared at his red-stained hand only a moment before clenching his fist and moving on. The border was three days' ride in a carriage, but time meant nothing to Arthur in his delirium. In his eyes, he could already see the lights and hear the laughter that would welcome him. 

He hadn't even realized he'd fallen asleep when suddenly he was being shaken into consciousness, held tightly in Eames' arms. Arthur tried to gasp but it came out gargled and then the dreaded tears came back, flowing in great streams down Arthur's cheeks. It was night time now, and the wind through the trees was their only witness as Arthur sobbed in Eames' arms. 

"I want to see Mother," Arthur cried, "And Paris. Can't you make these things happen?"

Eames shook his head. "It's one or the other, I'm afraid." He wasn't about to argue the semantics of Heaven and the possibility of Arthur even ever seeing his mother again, so he played along for now.

Arthur stared up at Eames, his eyebrows knit together and eyes wide with fear. “There’s so much I wanted to do, Eames. But I miss her. I need her.”

Sighing, Eames propped Arthur up a little higher, curled one hand around the base of Arthur’s skull to stroke the long, sweat-damp curls at his neck. “I miss her too, Arthur. But I’ll miss _you_ more if you go. Won’t you miss me?”

“Come with me,” Arthur breathed, a shaky smile on his lips. 

Eames stared at Arthur. This wraith in his arms was not the young man he loved any longer. This was a scared little boy, a confused mortal, pathetic in his sickness and unable to make coherent decisions. Eames felt sick just looking at this shell. “It hurts me to see you like this, Arthur. Do you have any idea how much it hurts?”

Arthur began to babble. He begged Eames to just kill him, to make it all end, and then he begged Eames to take him to Paris, back to Italy, any place other than these damnable woods-- what an unseemly place to die! 

“Arthur,” Eames drawled, annoyed with himself and with the frail mortal clinging to life in his arms, “I don’t know if you’ll thank me or hate me for this, but either way, I’ve chosen you and you’re going to have to accept that.”

Shaking his head no, no, no, Arthur tried to push at Eames, his weak, trembling hands slapping at Eames’ face and pushing at his chest, but to no avail. “Eames, don’t, I don’t want it, I want to see Mother, _please_ -”

Eames didn’t wait for Arthur to finish his babbling-- he bared his crooked teeth in a way he’d never done, his feral snarl that of a wild animal instead of a man. Arthur’s cry was pitiful, strangled, cut off as all the breath whooshed out of him in one fell swoop. 

Arthur blinked up at the moon as it rose high over the treeline. He was numb all over, but could feel the life seeping out of him. As Eames fed at Arthur’s neck, the world lost color. Arthur pissed himself, he could feel it vaguely, but could do nothing about it, his entire body limp as a ragdoll in Eames’ arms. 

Cleaving to consciousness by the barest of threads, Arthur didn’t realize at first what was being pressed into his mouth. A hot, coppery liquid, thick as syrup, poured into Arthur’s mouth and down his throat, but he did not have the strength to swallow. It overflowed, a crimson pool spilling down his jaw and neck. Eames cursed Arthur, saying words Arthur did not understand, and then Eames was stroking Arthur’s throat, forcing him to swallow. 

“Come on, Arthur. Work for yourself Darling, you need it.”

It registered at one point that what was in Arthur’s mouth was blood, and he began to sob anew. There were no tears, he was too weak for that, only dry heaving and whimpering. 

“Stop it. Stop crying,” Eames snarled, and then with an exaggerated roll of his eyes, he took his own wrist into his mouth and tore into the flesh. “You’re going to make me regret this, aren’t you? Petulant child.”

Eames kissed Arthur then, with a mouthful of his own blood. He pushed it into Arthur’s mouth, tilting the mortal’s chin so his neck was angled properly. The blood seeped down Arthur’s throat of its own accord and Eames pushed more into Arthur’s mouth, and more, the both of them a bloody mess as Arthur finally found the strength to swallow. 

“That’s it,” Eames cheered, relief soaked in his words, “That’s it, Arthur. Keep going, you’re such a good boy.”

Arthur wasn’t sure how he did it, but somehow he managed to begin lapping at the trickle of blood from Eames’ wrist, as vile and disgusting as it was. He licked and suckled, blood smeared obscenely over his cheeks and matting his long hair, and Eames leaned forward to attach his mouth to the other side of Arthur’s neck, leaving enough room for Arthur to continue feeding. 

They laid like that for some time, Eames feeding from Arthur as Arthur fed from Eames. In Arthur’s head he saw images of Eames-- of a different time from the man's life. Eames as a child, playing with a sister, and Eames older but still young, sobbing as an older man fucked him and left him for dead. Arthur saw Eames in different clothing, dirty and tilling the fields, being whipped brutally by a man on a horse. Arthur saw Eames watch his family die of starvation one by one. And Arthur saw Eames beaten and bound, offered to a demon of a woman with sharp teeth who promised to end the famine in trade for a sacrifice. 

It was all very jumbled and confusing, but Arthur knew it to be Eames’ past. It was frightening to see such a side of Eames, frightening to have these images in his that were private to Eames. 

When Arthur felt full, unable to drink anymore, he fell from Eames’ arms and laid still on the soft, warm ground. At some point, the color had come back, and the moon shone once again like a beacon in the sky, twinkling with a brightness Arthur had never seen before. He marveled at it for a time, and then promptly turned over and vomited up the little bit of food left lining his stomach. 

Eames panted heavily, wiping the blood from his mouth with a sleeve. “Just let it out. There’ll be more, surely.”

And there was. Arthur vomited again and again, and it only stopped when the flow was a steady crimson. Blood leaked from his nose and he knew he was crying again as well, tears from the pain of being sick, and when he put a finger to his eyes, he could see that his tears were red as well. Arthur, weak and trembling, looked over at Eames with a questioning whimper. 

“You’re dying. Just like you wanted, eh?” Eames said, and it was bitter. 

Arthur knew it to be a lie. “But I’m not… staying dead, am I?” he asked, voice no more than a strained whisper. 

Shaking his head, Eames shrugged his shoulders and looked away. “Where would the fun in that be, pet?”

There really was nothing to say to that. 

Arthur stood on shaky legs and stared down at Eames. He felt hollow inside and disgusting outside, covered in piss and vomit and blood, not all of it his own. His skin felt different. The wind felt different against his bare legs. And his stomach felt terribly, achingly empty. The numbness hadn’t yet left him.

“I’m hungry,” Arthur said hollowly. “And I need a bath.”

Eames snorted and rose to his feet. “Let’s go then. You gave the innkeeper a start, running out like that. You’re lucky I’m so charming-- she nearly tossed us out for the ruckus.”

Arthur said nothing. He felt light on his feet as Eames steered him back towards the shack of an inn, light enough on his feet that maybe he could run for days. The structure of his being felt wholly different and the same all at once. 

A hot bath was afforded them, and Eames stroked Arthur’s hair gently, kissing his brow as Arthur stared blankly up at the wooden panel ling above their heads. His mind was blank, as was his expression. 

He’d died, Eames had said. He certainly felt dead.

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” Eames whispered as they laid in bed later in the evening, Arthur suckling idly at Eames’ wrist. 

Pulling his mouth away slowly, Arthur licked his lips and thought about an answer. What _was_ he thinking about? 

“Nothing,” he said finally, and it was true.

...

Arthur was gone before Eames awoke the next evening.

...

...

For days, Eames waited. He stayed in their meager inn room every night, not even bothering to go out and feed, just waiting for Arthur to return. There was no scent left behind, no trail of carnage, no blood left in breadcrumb fashion for Eames to follow. There was nothing.

Arthur did not return.

A week, and then two, and Arthur was still nowhere to be found. Eames wept tears of red, fearing the worst, and finally decided it was time to return to leave. With Arthur's new thirst and untamed abilities, there was no way he could have survived out there on his own. Eames mused that he must be dead, that there was no other conclusion, because a fledgling vampire on his own with no mentor was a doomed thing. 

Eames had chosen his mate, and the choice had been wrong.

He returned to the chateau. There was nothing left for him in the world. Eternity is a lonely thing, and Eames was tired of seeing the ones he loved die off without him, leave him behind untouched by time. He went to the backyard and looked out at the fields of fruit, still kept by the gardeners. They'd tend as long as Eames continued to feed money into their accounts. 

The moon was just a sliver in the sky, barely a shade of it's full glory, and Eames wondered briefly if Arthur was out there somewhere, looking up at the same crescent moon. It was possible, just... highly improbable. With the link between their minds now severed, Eames had no real way of knowing. 

Finally, disgusted with the life growing in the fields and the cicadas singing their nightly song, Eames retreated back into the manor. He did not bother with a lantern this time as he descended the steps towards the deep innards of the chateau. Eames did not stop at the door to his bedroom, where his coffin lay, and he did not stop at the pantry rooms where his treasure was kept. He insead went deeper, further down into the dark depths where rats crept and bats slept.

It was several stories underground where Eames stopped. There was a tomb there, and a placard caked with dirt-- it read "Eames". There were coffins containing the skeletons of the last family who lived in the chateau, the family Eames took his name from. He did not know who they were, or how they came about their fortune, and he certainly did not know who it was that lay in the coffin nearest the back of the tomb. But that was the one he chose for his resting place. 

It took only a minimal amount of Eames' great strength to shove the lid aside, and then he looked into the blackest darkness, the contents of the coffin invisible to anyone without his keen night vision, and he saw the skeleton of what appeared to be a man at one time or another. More jewels, and tattered clothing. Useless things. He scooped them all out and promptly climbed inside the coffin, settling in amongst the dirt and stale air, the scattered jewelry and crushed bones. 

Eames closed his eyes and waited for Sleep to take him. He was a patient man.

  


[ _Cabin in the Woods_ by George Coll]


	7. Chapter 7

**EPILOGUE**

The year was 1900. A century and a half had gone by with Eames buried in that crypt, undisturbed until one early evening in which the lid of his coffin was heaved aside and the face of Arthur peered down at him, bright even in the pitch dark of the musty old cellar room.

“Eames,” cooed Arthur, “Is this where you've been all these years?”

When a vampire sleeps for long enough, they wither. The skin shrinks on his skull, his eyes shrivel in their sockets, his hair withers to a white wisp. Eames lay in such a state, his skin grey and leathered with time, his fingers barely more than bone. He could no speak, and although he understood that he was being spoken to, the words meant nothing. 

Arthur chuckled and pulled one sleeve back, pressed his wrist to his mouth, and slit it open with one sharp eyetooth. The blood poured like warm sap, a sweet nectar for Eames to feast on as Arthur held his wrist like a tap over the withered vampire's shriveled mouth. 

"Come on, then. Drink. I don't have all year. Or rather, I do, but let's not take that long, shall we?"

The stream of blood that dribbled over Eames' exposed teeth sank into the lines and grooves and sinews of Eames' mouth and chin, revitalizing him slowly. To some, the sight might be gruesome, disgusting, horrifying, with Eames in his skeletal state as he was, but Arthur just smiled, like a mother admiring the strength of her newborn as it attached to her breast. 

By the time Eames was strong enough to grip Arthur's wrist, press his mouth to the source of the flow, Arthur was scolding him, pulling his wrist away and snapping angry words. 

"You're going to bleed me dry!" Arthur warned, and clamped a hand over his wound protectively. He stood and backed away, grabbing a strange-looking lantern with a bright light, and flashed it at the door. "Let's go. We'll get you something else to drink. I could use a drink too."

Eames rose from his coffin mechanically, a wraith of a man compared to the glory of his former breadth. He followed Arthur silently, the younger of the two recounting the time he'd been away as a sort of small talk while they ascended the long, winding stairs. Eames listened in silence, his brain working as if through a hazy sludge. 

"I was so angry," Arthur said at one point. "I was angry at you, and angry at mother, and angry at myself. I was spoiled and didn't want what you had to give, I didn't want this. From the moment you'd taken me from my mother and father's house in Long Island, I was babied by you. I didn't once have to earn anything, not ever, and even with my wife, she did practically everything for me. She was beautiful and kind, and I didn't deserve her."

The chateau was deserted. Everything was in disarray, every surface covered in a thick layer of dust. Arthur said offhandedly, "They took everything of value, the looters. All your stuff is gone, Eames."

There was more that Arthur explained. He talked about everything and anything, most of it not registering to Eames' dulled ears until suddenly they were in the yard of a stranger's home, Eames bent over a man he did not know, and the taste of fresh flowing blood was in his mouth and filling his belly. 

Eames could feel the life flowing back into his extremities. The hair on his head felt full again, his cheeks warm and only a little gaunt. He was still not back to his old self, but he could feel that he was well on his way.

Arthur watched intently, fed a little from the arm of Eames' next victim as Eames tore into the man's neck.

With the both of them full and flushed, Eames looking like his old self once more, they took a walk in the moonlight of Bergamo. The bodies would be discovered tomorrow, and they'd need to leave, but for tonight, the two of them just wanted to enjoy each other's company. 

A stone bench sat in the graveyard outside of town, and they sat and kissed like young lovers under the dark cover of a willow tree. 

"Why are you here?" Eames eventually asked, his head in Arthur's lap as long, nimble fingers stroked through honey-yellow hair. "Why did you return to me?"

Arthur thought about his answer for a moment, and Eames cursed his inability to see the thoughts in Arthur's head as he used to. "It's not like I don't love you, Eames. For years I was stuck in a cycle of hating you. With no one to teach me what to do or where to go, I was an animal on new legs. My mind was a mess. All I could feel was fear and anger, as my thoughts were a forest of tangled thorns."

Eames remembered when he'd been turned. The woman who gave him the bite was careful in her teachings, and patient. A new vampire is like a child, a newborn driven only by hunger. He couldn't imagine how frustrating it was for Arthur with nobody there to guide him. And yet he couldn't feel sorrow or pity for Arthur, because his seclusion was his own doing.

"So, what?" Eames asked, looking up through the dim light at Arthur's chin, the curl of dark brown hair at his ears that Eames had missed dearly. "You came for me because you missed me?"

Arthur didn't look at him, only pursed his lips and stilled the fingers brushing at Eames' temple. "Is that such a terrible thing? To want to see my Maker?"

"I'm your Maker now am I? Nothing else to you?"

Rolling his eyes dramatically, Arthur bent and pressed his lips to Eames' brow. "Shut up and let me have this or I'll put you back in that box."

Eames couldn't help but think that this Arthur was different than the one he'd loved. This Arthur was hard, his exterior cold above and beneath the skin. This Arthur was mature, talkative but silent, hollow on the inside like a ghost of the man Eames once knew. Perhaps the animal that was a freshly-turned vampire had not yet left Arthur, and this was the camouflage of a predator. 

"Don't look at me like that," whispered Arthur.

"Like what?" Eames asked, and he knew the words before Arthur spoke them.

"Like you don't know me."

...

They spent a week in the city nearby, dining on the blood of drunken men at night, stumbling into the bars to dance and kiss, and in the days they fucked instead of sleeping. Arthur showed Eames all the tricks he’d learned, the tips from the men he’d busied himself with, the nameless faces with the talented tongues and hands. Eames had never had a more energetic lover, in his life or his afterlife.

They lay in each other’s arms one evening, when Arthur suddenly gasped and rolled out of bed. Eames watched as Arthur pulled on his pants and ran a shy hand through his shaggy brown hair. “So, do you remember that thing you used to do? Where you knew what I was thinking? Well, it was a power right? I got one too. You want to see?”

Eames was intrigued. He sat up and crossed his legs under the blanket, rested his chin on one hand and watched. 

Slowly, steadily, Arthur’s feet began to leave the floor. Eames watched as Arthur rose up to the ceiling, a boyish grin on his dimpled face. “You like it?”

Astounded for sure, Eames barked a laugh and shook his head in amazement. “I’d heard it was possible to learn such a thing, but I’d never see it.”

“So you can’t do anything like this?” Arthur asked, not a little smugly.

Shaking his head again, Eames laid down on his side and made himself comfortable among the pillows. He was admittedly a little jealous. “Our kind manifests powers in different ways. My own Master was able to control fire, a gift I was never afforded.”

Nodding in thought, Arthur floated down onto the bed and crawled into Eames’ arms, looking up into the man’s grey-blue eyes with loaded affection. “I liked your mind-reading trick. You always knew me better than I knew myself.”

Eames nodded and kissed Arthur’s eyelids. He left it at that, and didn't bother to expand Arthur's knowledge, didn't want to explain that it was more than just reading minds, but also controlling them, manipulating their emotions. Eames didn't know how Arthur would react to hearing that the boy's choice to leave New York all those years ago might not have been wholly his own. It was selfish of him, but that was one secret he'd take to his Final grave. 

Eames was still wary of this new Arthur, the one who brought himself from death to full-fledged afterlife all on his own. There was a superiority in Arthur's gaze that Eames didn't recognize, a jaunty confidence that was not there previously. 

This new Arthur would take some getting used to.

...

World War I tore them apart, a whole fourteen years later. Arthur had adopted the radical notion that he could somehow help, that he could do some good out there for the American forces, and Eames refused to take part in it, claiming the entire farce was futile and childish and would end in countless innocent corpses with or without the help of the undead.

“I shed enough blood every time I’m feeling parched, Arthur. I’ll stay out of it, thank you.”

Arthur had left with narrowed eyes and a thin line for a mouth. Eames wouldn’t see him again for almost thirty more years.

...

On November 26 of 1942, the film Casablanca premiered in theaters. The Second World War still raged on, with tensions rising not only on European shores, but on American soil as well, and the movie theater was one of the few places people could go to feel safe, as if the turmoil and bloodshed was happening somewhere else, to someone else, and not to their countrymen, their real life family and friends.

New York City was alight with uneasy celebration as Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman walked the long red carpet, cameras flashing and smiles firmly in place. Eames stood by in the crowd of onlookers, just as excited as the men and women crowded around him. Movies were new and interesting, something Eames had grown to love dearly. His hands were stuffed in the pockets of his tailored trousers to keep from fidgeting, shoulders squared to keep from being knocked and shoved by bystanders as the leading lady and gentleman were hustled inside. 

He looked across the way at the crowd of people and, at first, saw only a sea of unfamiliar faces. And then he felt a set of eyes on him. His gaze raked back over the mob of movie-goers and settled on a sleek line of a figure, a clean cut three-piece suit on a slender brunette male with slicked back hair and a hard, crooked smile. 

They didn't approach each other at first, rather let the ocean of warm, human bodies sweep around them like a school of fish trickling slowly into the theater. When the crowd tapered off and the natural flow of things brought them closer together, neither of them spoke. Not at first. Their elbows brushed, and their shoulders, and at some point Arthur had adopted a flush across his cheeks, much to Eames' pleasure. 

If Eames had had his way, they would have kissed right there in front of everyone with the bright lights of the theater glaring on them. They would have linked fingers, arms, bodies, and they'd be crushed together for all the world to see. But unfortunately, America was not quite as free as the tagline would have one believe, and public homosexuality was taboo in the current time period. There'd be time later for that sort of business-- there was always time.

They sat together, the armrest between them acting as a safeguard from Eames making a fool of himself and doing something out of line like leaning into Arthur and twining their arms together. As the lights dimmed and the pre-show cartoon began, Arthur let his hand fall to the edge of his small seat, right along the edge. Eames did the same. It was the smallest of touches-- just an overlap of pinky and ring fingers, but the touch was electric and kept a grin on both their faces for the duration of the film. 

Afterwards, they took a cab to an hourly hotel. Their clothes weren't even fully off before Arthur was on his knees and tearing at Eames' trousers. Arthur knew well enough how to suck and lick without using his sharpest teeth, and he did so with a gusto that told Eames just how much the younger vampire missed him.

After they'd made love, Eames didn't pull out of Arthur, just rolled them over so he was on his back and pressed his mouth to Arthur's collar to feed. He wasn't hungry, and generally it didn't do much for a vampire to drink another vampire's blood anyway, but it was a sign of affection between a Maker and his fledgling to drink from each other, like an affectionate hello after a long parting. 

In Arthur's blood, Eames could taste love like a syrupy heat, and the tang of malice, but it wasn't aimed at him. Arthur had been overseas, he'd been to Germany, he'd killed men, and Eames could see it, the images of a gun in Arthur's hand, the insides of human men's skulls painting a wall bright red. He could taste and he could see the horrors plaguing Arthur's mind, and suddenly there was anger, and Arthur was shoving off of him and away to sit at the edge of the bed. 

"Don't do that. I can feel you inside my head. Don't do that again."

Eames' red mouth hung open as he stared at Arthur in shock, and then embarrassment overtook him and he looked away. It was one thing to taste, but Eames had overstepped a boundary. He'd taken too much, and now the air between them was cold, the romance broken wholly. 

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to..." Eames trailed off, swiping his middle finger along the blood dripping down his chin and staring at it strangely. Arthur was pale, his brow pinched in frustration. Eames hated himself for putting that look on Arthur's face. But he hated Arthur more for putting himself in such danger. 

"So you're fighting again, are you?" asked Eames, his voice low. "Men have dragged themselves into a second world war and you've tagged along? How is it, killing Nazis? Does it somehow make you feel better about the innocent lives you take whenever you're feeling particularly voracious?"

The look Arthur gave him was murderous. No words came from Arthur's mouth, but the hatred was almost palpable between them.

Eames smiled sadly, no real fight in him. "I'm sorry. I just don't want you squandering your life out there for nothing. I made you to spend eternity with me, and yet you're always leaving me."

Arthur's scowl didn't dissipate. "If you think what you gave me is a gift, you are sorely mistaken." 

He stood then, grabbed his clothes strewn across the floor, and shut himself up in the bathroom. 

"Are we done here then?" Eames asked, his heart feeling heavy in his chest. The sound of running water was his only reply. He slid off the bed and slowly dressed, pulling his trousers on with a sigh. He went to the door of the bathroom and listened to the shower a moment before pushing the door open slowly. Arthur’s naked form could be seen through the glass, lithe and pale and more beautiful than any Eames will ever see again.

Arthur was bent into the stream of water, unmoving. “You’re an asshole, do you know that?” he asked, just loud enough for Eames to hear. He didn’t wait for a reply before he went on. “I’m not a child anymore. I will do what I want with what I was given, Eames. If you regret your decision to choose me, it’s your own fault. I never wanted this. I still don’t want it. And if it wasn’t for my own fear of death, I would have thrown myself into a fire by now.”

It made Eames’ stomach turn to even imagine Arthur doing such a thing. He went to the glass door and slid it open, watched the lines of water stream down the muscles of Arthur’s back for the briefest of moments before leaning in to turn the water off. He grabbed Arthur gently, pulling him out of the stall and into his arms. 

“Arthur, I will never regret choosing you. Ever.”

Arthur sagged against Eames then, and sighed. “You’re still an asshole.”

Eames rolled his eyes to the ceiling but didn’t say anything. He held Arthur like that for awhile, and when they were done, they dressed and parted ways. 

Arthur wanted his independence (his humanity), and Eames couldn’t do anything about that, only hope that Arthur wouldn’t do anything stupid out there alone and away from him. 

Eames didn’t regret turning Arthur. Not completely, anyway.

...

The introduction of cellphones and, later, the internet made it easier for them to keep in touch. Eames' knack for reading minds made it easy to accustom himself to new technology, which really was just another language among the hundred or so others he'd gleaned from around the world. And of course Arthur was quick to pick it up, always thirsty for the new inventions and knowledge of the age.

"Did you know," Arthur began on a Saturday phone call, he in California that week and Eames in Hawaii, "that they've got printers now, that do 3D? These printers can make anything. They replicated the skeletal structure of a rat the other day."

Eames shrugged. "And next week they'll be looking into our dreams to see what makes us tick."

Arthur laughed. "Well actually, they're starting to do that too."

A mere 10 years later, and Eames would recall that conversation with mild amusement.

“Eames, this is Mal and Dom. Mal, Dom, this is Eames.”

Mal was a French woman with long, dark hair, and grey eyes. She smiled and raised an eyebrow at Eames, who smiled back before letting his gaze drift to the handsome blond man at her side. Dom’s brow was creased with tension even relaxed as he was, and Eames figured him to be a man looking for trouble. He did not read their minds, as they were Arthur’s friends and he did not want to feel like an intruder, but he did bend and kiss Malorie’s knuckles flirtatiously. Her gait and dress, the smoothness of her skin and label on her shoes, all of it denoted wealth and class, and Eames loved her immediately. 

“It’s lovely to meet you both,” Eames said, ignoring the pointed look from Dom and the glare from Arthur. 

“Likewise,” Dom said, shaking Eames’ hand when offered. The blond looked over at Arthur then, his ice blue eyes dropping to the silver case Arthur had clutched in one hand. “Shall we?”

Introductions clearly over, Eames showed them to the sitting room, where Arthur laid out the shiny silver suitcase that was apparently the reason for their meeting. Arthur clicked it open and pushed the lid back to reveal some sort of machine inside with long tubes and wires, shiny metal cylinders and cartridges of an unknown liquid. Dom and Mal took their seat on the couch, and Arthur sat on the edge of the wooden table looking like a kid with the hottest new toy on the market.

Eames looked at the three of them expectantly. “And this would be…?”

Arthur put his hand on the edge of the lid with as much pride as a mother for her child, and said, “It’s the gateway to our dreams.”

...

They spent 5 years together, the four of them, building and experimenting with dreams. Eames watched as Malorie grew plump with child once, and then a second time. He watched as Arthur grew attached to Mal, more attached than was healthy for an immortal being such as he was. A peek into Mal’s thoughts showed a deep love for Arthur, but it was not the same as the love she held for Dom, and Arthur knew this. Arthur grieved over this. Eames grieved as well when Dominic and his wife began to sew a rift between themselves and everyone else, including their children.

Dom and Mal began to dream obsessively. Arthur was blinded by his love for Mal, his respect for Dom, blinded by the PASIV and it's endless wonders, but Eames knew all too well what was going on. He’d been keeping an eye on the thoughts of his friends when they started to become unhealthy, when he began to see a decline in the two’s social skills. A peek into Dom’s mind showed Eames that they'd spent hundreds of years deep in the limbo of their dreams, and a dip into Mal’s showed her becoming dangerously wary of the real world. Even with her totem she became unsure of her own reality, and Eames saw that it was Dominic's fault. 

Malorie’s mental health declined sharply until her death, even with the vehement intervention of the three men she held dearest.

Arthur was crushed when Mal left them. He’d confessed to Eames that he was in love with her, that he wanted to take her from Dom, and Eames had laughed cruelly at the time, but now his heart ached for Arthur, who always seemed to lose the women in his life that he loved. The loss of Mal took an emotional toll on Arthur, and he became distant to Eames once again, uncaring and silent even as Dom fled the country and the kids were left to their grandparents. 

It wasn’t a surprise when Arthur went after Dom less than a week later, leaving without a word and not bothering to answer his phone.

Eames hated Dom. He hated Dom with a ferocity that should have been split between he and his wife, but seeing as she was now dead, Eames focused it completely on him. They’d been stupid to immerse themselves in the PASIV’s dream world for so long. They’d been stupid to love each other so fiercely and birth two beautiful children only to forget them in the wake of their selfish, reckless behavior.

Most of all, Eames hated Dom for taking Arthur. 

Arthur had loved Mal, but he loved Dominic as well, loved him as the father Arthur had always wanted (needed) in his life. So of course when Dom was shattered as a man, badly in need of someone to pick up the pieces of himself and the mess he’d created, Arthur was right there ready to do it. 

Rarely did Eames ever put forth enough effort to really and truly hate someone, but Dominic Cobb had earned it.

Arthur did not keep in touch with Eames after that. Arthur fell off the grid, and Eames went back to his own life, carrying his anger with him all the way to Rwanda, Uganda, Kenya. He liked it there. There were no extractors or point men, there were no secret silver cases, and there were no impossibly beautiful French woman to waltz into his life and destroy everything.

...

The plane landed. Eames watched as Dominic Cobb was given no more than a nod and a stamp as he passed through customs. His luggage in hand and a sigh on his lips, Eames almost didn't see Arthur standing there, glancing over at him with something like a smile on his pale pink mouth.

Eames' fingers flexed on the handle of his suitcase and he shoved his other fist in the pocket of his trousers. _To hell with it, I suppose._

He sauntered over to Arthur, who was just bending over to lift his bag from the conveyor belt. "Hello there, lovely. I was just about to make my way to a hotel, maybe take a long, hot bath, and rent a movie. Something classic, I think. Are you busy this evening? I wouldn't mind some company."

Arthur looked around gave the back of Dom’s head one last, long look. He hummed in thought, and pulled his expensive leather bag over his shoulder as if stalling for time. "Hmm. I don't know, Eames. I'm not good with classics. We can't always have Paris if one of us has never been there."

Pursing his lips, Eames reached out and grabbed Arthur's wrist, pulled the man closer. "Arthur, you've got an eternity to avoid me. All I want is for you to come back home, just for a little bit, and be the man I love."

Ducking his head shyly, Arthur let his head drop to Eames' shoulder, let himself be pulled against the other man’s body as he whispered, "And where is home?"

Eames pulled Arthur into his arms and they held each other. In the middle of an airport, filled with thousands of people, they were alone, just for that instant. 

"It's here. With me."

Arthur lifted his head and looked at Eames' blue-grey eyes, his plush pink lips, and he nodded absently. "Okay," he said, and that one word was filled with a million others. Eames didn't need to read Arthur's mind to understand. "Okay," Arthur repeated, and they kissed like the lovers they'd been almost three hundred years before.

  


[ _The Spectrum for Happiness_ by Leonid Afremov]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you anyone who read and enjoyed. Have a wonderful Halloween.


End file.
